


Office Hours

by Birdgirl90



Series: Selfcerts: For Her [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Female self insert - Freeform, Other, POV Second Person, Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl90/pseuds/Birdgirl90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you'll do anything to pass this damn college paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Office Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovelies!  
> Here's some Professor Ocelot for you.  
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> ~Birdie

You wait outside his door, running the lines through your head again for the upteenth time.

_ I don’t understand this citation format. Why are we using Chicago style again? Is my thesis even okay? I’m afraid of failing this paper. _

The door creaks open and he sticks his head out, that bemused smile ever present on his too handsome face. Professor Adamska, the most attractive teacher here at University, at least to you. You know you aren’t supposed to fraternize with the professors, the teachers, those who hold your grades and acceptance here in your hands. And yet, you can’t help yourself as the butterflies ride your stomach when you walk through the door.

He greets you by name, and never has your name sounded so good to you. He offers you a peppermint out of a small candy bowl on his desk, the kind that are soft like butter mints and silver hair, not hard like the line of his hips as he paces in front of a lecture hall of 100 other students. You take one, pleased that he still remembers you, even if you do frequent here more than you’re sure other students do.

You ask him your questions, voice your concerns, and he listens intently, too long, narrow fingers folded in front of his lips. You know he hears every word you say, takes in the pauses and rushed breaths as you try to keep your cool. The red scarf around his neck nearly matches the scarlet of your face when you finish, both from nerves and those quickened beats in your chest you can’t control, don’t want to control.

He sighs, deep and velvety, before moving his hands to finger your paper. Professor Adamska places square reading glasses on his nose - god, could anyone have such a straight nose? - and skims your outline, your thesis, your heart. He grins at you, dorky and sexy all at once, a strand of silver hair falling from that ridiculous man bun that you adore. You feel your fingers twitch, the urge to pull the rest down and see it around his straight shoulders nearly overwhelming. 

You realize he’s watching you, his face no longer innocent but hungry, a desire in his blue grey eyes you’ve never seen before, a longing underriding the fire. Even when he speaks of the West, of the pioneers and cowboys and ranch hands, the hidden wistfulness in his rich voice and eyes, he doesn’t look this way, the way he’s looking at you now. Your lower stomach aches, a slow burn building as you match his gaze. You want him. You’ve wanted him since the first class, since the first office hours session where you saw his argyle socks under too short dress slacks on too narrow hips, from the first cup of coffee he brought you after you mentioned being tired and cold during midterms.

Professor Adamska, untouchable and aloof, yet humorous and sincere, all at once in a nearly impossible contradiction. He clears his throat, and touches his dress shirt collar, the rust colored sweater above it nearly too short in the sleeves for his lanky arms. He’s got the build of an artist, the way you imagine a pianist would be, fingers dancing lightly over the ivory and ebony bone; or perhaps a painter, brush in hand as he mixes colors on a palette, gracefully tracing them across the canvas in front of him. You want him to play you, to paint you, to trace your curves while you follow his edges.

You can’t help yourself. You know you’re on a tip of a knife, you know he knows it too. There’s a pause before he gets up, walks over with steps that reach across the floor as if they are skating over ice - smooth and sure and silent - and leans against the desk in front of you. The readers get pulled off, twirled in those fingers of his, and you sigh. Do you fall off the tip of this knife and plummet or stay and let yourself bleed and burn white hot?

You fall, let yourself sprout the wings of courage and lust you’ve always carried, and lift your hand, push the hair from his cheek back. It’s like water, smooth and cool and silkier than you thought possible, almost as if it flows through your fingers. He watches you, ever with those sharp eyes that miss nothing, that pierce you and break you and heal you at once. A miniscule head tilt and Professor Adamska grabs your hand; his grip is firm but his touch somehow gentle, callouses along the palm of his hand from horse reins and paper trails and pencils that never sharpen just right. Lips grace your fingertips, those eyes locked with yours, the question of whether you pull away or stay lingering, waiting, tentative. Instead of pulling away, you let the flush grow and bring your other hand up, tug at his collar, undo the button he was messing with not a moment before.

And then.

Quick movements, quicker and more graceful than you expect for his size, his torso so long as he crushes you to him, smelling of cologne you can’t quite place, soap and dust from landscapes you’ve only heard about in lectures and movies. His lips move against yours, that taste of peppermint and coffee lingering and pushing into you, flooding your mouth as he breathes you in, explores you, the sighs and moans coming from your throat matched only by the growls building in his chest. It roughens, and you realize this is now or never as he threads his fingers between your dark strands, grips you to him, tugs at you. His sweater is warm, scratchy like the thin beard of his chin as he brings his lips down across your jaw, your neck, nipping at your life line, rapidly changing, growing.

He pulls at you, pulls you out of the chair with surprising strength for one so lithe, and turns you against his desk, his breath in your hear as he pants Russian words you only know as melodies in his rough and ragged voice. You call him Professor and he corrects you, fingers on your jeans, undoing the button while calling you, telling you to call him Adam, makes you whine it before his fingers continue, tells you how good you are, how bright you are, so good so good. 

You let him drop your pants to the ground, let him finger and prod and explore your wet heat, feel him hard behind you, rocking and groaning and grinding, breathing hard against your neck. When he pauses, it’s not for long, only brief enough for the sound of a zipper and whisper of passion, the kind reserved for the women of the west when the men showdown at high noon, gun smoke and fire and hot hot sun. He enters, not gentle but rough, harder and more forceful than anyone before him, and you thrill at the way he spreads you, grip the desk with white knuckles, aware of his fingers still stroking and petting you until you moan his name over and over again like a prayer, a mantra, a plea all at once.

_ Adam, Adamska, Adam adamadam _

Until it’s over, much too soon, and you’re left with firm arms around your waist, panting in your ear telling you how much you are an A student even in this regard, the dripping between your thighs hot and thick and worth the inevitable mess pooling in the clothing at your ankles. He releases you, fixes his zipper, pulls you around while you try to breathe, pulls your own pants up for you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Nearly all of Adam’s hair graces his face and you can’t help it, you pull that stupid bun out, smoothing the silver strands around his lovely face, flushed and crimson to match his scarf and mismatched sweater, kiss his nose, kiss his cheeks, cup his face as arms wrap around you once more, swallowing you in the embrace.

 

_ I still don’t understand my paper _ you somehow manage to tease.

He laughs that velvet smooth laugh of his, chest vibrating against you. 

_ Perhaps we need more office hours then. And maybe dinner. _

_ You smile slyly, and couldn’t agree more. _

 

 


End file.
